Faint, Far Away
by CherryValiant
Summary: A spattering of stories detailing the growing relationship between John Hancock and The Woman Out of Time.
1. Chapter 1 - Savior

When the mutant hound knocked him on his back, he thought, "Well, this is how I die." It gnawed at the shotgun in its mouth, the only thing keeping the beast from tearing off his face. Its stubby back legs tore apart his thighs, his stomach, preventing any chance at kicking it off of him. Two taloned paws ripped apart the skin on his chest.

He tried to call out for help, still hearing the sound of her gunshots over the frantic growling from the dog that was killing him. It shook the gun in its mouth in an attempt to take it from him. He held as best as he could. He watched the metal bend in its jaws and shut his eyes as tightly as he could, preparing for the gun to break.

But it didn't. Instead, at the last second, he heard combat boots against cement and opened his eyes. It might have been the Jet or the adrenaline, but he watched her sail over him in slow motion, arms wrapping around the dog's middle in a flying tackle. It yelps in pain as she throws it off of him, somehow landing on her knees as it struggled to turn over. A single, well-placed bullet ends the beast.

He was in awe. He tried to sit up, but his chest was on fire and his legs didn't want to support his weight. There was a lot of blood, and none of it was the dog's. He looked up at her when she knelt beside him, already tearing off the sleeves of her undershirt to tie around his bleeding legs.

"That was the coolest shit I've ever seen," he mutters under his breath, suddenly fascinated with the freckles on her nose. She looks up at him, smiles, then looks past him. Somewhere, more super mutants were howling.

"I've gotta pick you up so we can get out of here," she pants, tying both sleeves around his respective legs. He tries to stand on his own, but collapses into her chest. He curses, knowing that he might be the reason they both die today. But she scoops him up into her arms like a bride, wobbling slightly under his weight, and takes off.

The moon is their light as she finally finds a place to rest. In the ruins of an old shipping yard, a huge blue container is their temporary home. It's just big enough for them and a little campfire. She'd loaded him up with stimpaks and bandaged his wounds as best she could, and even though he'd insisted he was fine, she wanted to stop for the night.

He's propped against the inside of the cargo container when she finally flops beside him, handing him a can of beans. He tries not to have her notice him scratching at the strips of old shirt wrapped around his chest.

"Thanks for the beans," he winks at her, and watches her smile grow. Her nose crinkles in the fire light.

"Thanks for, y'know, not dying and stuff," she smiles, dumping the can into her mouth like a drink. He does the same, making sure not to wince as his chest burns. They eat in silence for a while.

"Honestly, though. Thank you," he says, drawing her attention from the embers to him. Her eyes shine in the glow, like the stars in the ocean. "Not a lot of people would've tackled a hound to save one ghoul."

"You're not just a ghoul," she's quick to respond. "You're Hancock. You're my…" He watches her stumble over the "friend", her eyes darting away and her smile growing with her rising blush. Inside his torn up chest, his ribcage tightens. "So, uh, you wanna see something cool?"

He smiles and nods, finding her inability to hide emotion endearing. She digs through one of the pockets on her coat and pulls out a holotape, popping it into the Pip-Boy on her wrist. A little game flickers on the screen. "RED MENACE" illuminates her face.

They spend the rest of the night trying to beat each other's high scores, neither seeming to notice when Hancock's arm finds a place around her waist. In the middle of the night, he awakens to find the Pip-Boy still in his lap, her head resting comfortably against his shoulder. He nestles into her hair, smelling the faint, far away scent of vanilla before falling back asleep.


	2. Chapter 2 - Rain

Hancock awoke to the sound of thunder across the horizon. Groaning, his back stiff, he sits up. The ratty blanket falls to his hips as he rubs his eyes, doing his best to remove the sleep from them. He stares out the shattered window, watching the sun slowly swallowed by storm clouds. Rain hissed in the distance, and before he mustered the will to throw his legs over the bed, a light drizzle had already begun above the tattered farmhouse.

On the opposite side of the room, she turned in her sleep, nestled under a Brahmin hide blanket that barely covered her feet. Soft snores gilded the rainfall, interrupted only by the flip of Hancock's lighter as he inhales a cigarette. The smoke exits his nose in huge clouds as he stands, clad in nothing but his trousers. Clothes tended to irritate his skin, he told women in bars to pique their interests. Grabbing a pistol from a broken nightstand, he descends the stairs with his smoke between his thin lips.

Exiting the old farmhouse, the ghoul leans on the only part of the porch railing that was still standing, flicking his ashes into the rain. In his line of work, you didn't get many soft moments. Moments where you could look out into a thunderstorm and actually appreciate what little beauty was left in the wastes. He takes another long drag, filling his lungs and blowing the smoke into little O's with his tongue.

The woman upstairs was something else. Wickedly smart, a fast talker. He once saw her put a bullet into a raider's head from four hundred yards.

Another long drag.

And those _hips_. She was plump, a characteristic uncommon in the wastes. And damn, did she fill out that BOS uniform. He smirks, thinking of the many times he caught himself watching her slam into battle, thrust that bayonetted rifle into super-mutant stomachs, her face flecked with blood and sweat.

He hears the mattress on the second floor creak, and he hastily breathes in the rest of his cigarette in a vain attempt to silence the rush of blood that flooded past his belt. Tossing the butt to the thunderstorm, he decides to loot the kitchen for anything of value to eat. Before he manages to sneak into the kitchen, however, she comes down the stairs, wrapped in her blanket.

He feels his lungs falter in his chest. Her hair was in a ratty knot and fell across her eyes as she looked at him, her full lips pulling back in a smile.

"Morning," she yawns, covering her mouth with the blanket. Hancock coughs out a "good morning" and hustles into the kitchen, trying to regain himself. Christ, you never saw a woman before, he snaps at himself, flinging open the fridge door.

Of course, there was nothing inside. Not even an empty Cola bottle. Hancock sighs, turning to his partner leaning in the doorway.

"No breakfast? I'm gonna file a complaint with the manager. The service in this place is terrible," she shrugs, her eyes closed but her mouth still smirking.

"Well, excuse me, ma'am. We here at Irradiated John's offer the best 200 year-old servings of 'Go-Fuck-Yourself's' this side of the Glowing Sea, and we shan't need your patronage to thrive," he sniffs, peering down his non-existent nose at her. She laughs, her eyes crinkling. He finds himself grinning at the sight, her frame outlined by the rain above.

They gather their things from the chests upstairs before they head out, her stomach growling loudly as she fastened her armor over her thighs. Hancock promised her all the noodles she could manage when they got to Diamond City, and he couldn't remember seeing her look more enthused.

Their weapons in hand, they stood on the porch, both scowling at the storm around them. Without a word, Hancock plopped his hat atop her head, and she simply touched his arm in thanks. They left the ruined home, knowing that silence was all the gratitude that needed to be shown.


	3. Chapter 3 - Honey

"Hi, Honey!"

Her sharp inhale managed to pierce his chest through two rooms and a radstorm. His head jerks up, about to call back to see if she was alright. But as emerald lightning bounces around in the sky, he finds himself staring at the hallway that leads to her room.

Sanctuary was quiet tonight. The only sounds were the turrets and the snoring of sleeping settlers. Out of respect, he'd offered to crash on her old couch. It felt like it had been through a 200 year shitstorm – the thing was more beat up than he was. But he'd kicked off his boots, tossed his shotgun to a similarly ugly chair, and stretched out.

Sleep rarely came to him when he wasn't high, a fact that he didn't share with many. He'd slept with more nightmares than any living person, and the only thing that kept them from his bed was a few inhales of Jet. He wasn't proud of it, but what can ya do?

He lays back against the couch, feeling like a dick for snooping on whatever she was doing back there. The other person talking was muffled now, but he hadn't seen anyone follow her back to bed. His fists tighten around the brahamin-hide blanket. If anyone had tried to hurt her when she slept, they'd find out what buckshot tasted like.

He waited, counting down the seconds on his palm until she gasped again. He rose, tugging his knife from his belt. He made the hallway in a few steps, turning to find her curled up on herself, tears leaving glowing trails down her cheeks in the candlelight.

She jumps, swollen eyes locking onto him as she tries to turn the holotape off. He holsters his knife, reassuring her that it was only him. She doesn't relax much.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he sighs, running his fingers over his skull. "I heard you crying and I wanted to make sure…"

He pauses as she begins to cry harder. He's a statue for a moment, unsure what to do, before he sits across from her on the bed, legs folded under him.

"Hey, look at me," he asks softly, laying his hands in front of him. She looks up, starlight eyes pinning him in place. Christ, she had been crying for a while. "Take my hands, okay?"

She does, and he can feel the mattress trembling. He takes one of her smooth, pale hands and places it on his bare chest, palm covering most of his sternum.

"Just focus on my breathing, okay? Just follow me."

He takes a series of deep breaths, waiting for her hyperventilation to ease up. When she can finally take a deep breath without shaking, he slowly dissolves his lungs into a normal rhythm. She follows, her trembling stopping altogether.

After a minute or two of simply breathing together, he hooks his finger under her chin, bringing her gaze up to his. His thumb gently brushes the tears from her cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," she hiccups, looking down at her free hand still in his.

"Hey, you don't have anything to be sorry for. I was the one that fucked up a private moment," he shrugs, hoping to show that he wasn't upset and not that he didn't care. She still looks away, so he slowly slides out of her fingers.

"I shouldn't have… I usually only listen to it when I'm alone. Tonight…" Her jaw clenches tighter, her mouth becoming a thin, angry line. Her eyes search the area to the side of his head, trying to find a point to focus her sad fury.

"Tonight I didn't miss him."

If he had eyebrows, they'd be to his hairline. He doesn't say anything, noticing the words growing on her tongue.

"I didn't miss him. I didn't feel anything when I listened to it the first time, so I tried again, and again, and again, and I still didn't miss him. And I cried because I don't miss him anymore when I know I should, and then you came in and I realized why I didn't miss him and I just ended up crying even harder and-"

"Hey, hey," he coos, pulling her into his chest. He rubs slow circles into her back, feeling her spine jerk at her new wave of sobbing. He lays back, resting his ribs against the wall, stretching out his legs on the bed, watching how naturally she curls around him. He begins stroking her beach colored hair, eyes fluttering shut.

"I'm so sorry," she mumbles into his chest, wrapping her arm around his middle. He fights every apology with a gentle reassurance that she wasn't a burden, or ruining his night. He wanted to tell her she was beautiful and funny and strong, but he didn't know if what she'd said was something she'd have wanted him to hear in a more somber setting.

Still…

"And then you came in and I realized why I didn't miss him," played over and over behind his eyes, long after she'd fallen asleep, his fingers tracing the freckles on her face and shoulders as his thoughts drifted to faint, faraway places.


	4. Chapter 4 - Sentimental

**_Author's Note:_** If you cool cats wanna know the song that played during this scene, here ya go.  
"I Love You for Sentimental Reasons" - Nat King Cole

* * *

"What was it like before?"

Her eyes slowly rise to his across the table, mouth inches away from her food. Her eyebrows rise, questioning him before she lowers her meat back to her plate.

"You mean… the world?" she asks slowly, propping herself on her elbows. He nods, taking another heavy inhale of Jet, exhaling smoke that frames her face in foggy birds. Somewhere below, a triggerman was laughing.

She takes a long time before answering.

"Well… I guess everything was more alive." He snorts, and she grins as her eyes dart away. "Hey, fuck off, I'm trying my best." He waves his hand for her to continue, boots propped on the table yet away from her food.

"Everything was… well. It was full of people. Even Sanctuary Hills was busy, and that was nothing compared to the cities. But there were animals, too. Birds and insects and little salamanders, toads, fish." He watches her through another exhale, her eyes piercing the smoke in their longing. For a second, he can almost see those salamanders.

"And the rain! The rain smelled clean, and it was calming, and people would buy holotapes of thunderstorms to help them sleep. It wasn't acid rain, and it didn't smell like Sulphur. People could also use it as an excuse to stay inside and relax, which, I guess, is also an idea of the past."

Her words were coming faster, frenzied, and he knew it was leading up to tears or anger. His fingers fell to the Jet inhaler, but he keeps it to his side on the couch. Her Pip-boy was spinning with music, her voice shaking, her left leg bouncing in a nervous twitch.

"And you never really notice how much you miss people until there aren't any left. When every single person you ever knew in your entire life is a skeleton on the sidewalk and you think, 'Is that Jane? Zachary? I'm never going to see them again.' And everyone is so afraid, of the world, of each other, and no one can ever relax because as soon as you do, you die."

She was shaking, biting her lip and tearing at the skin. He could smell the blood mixing in with the Jet. He could taste her tears like an early rainstorm. She opens her mouth, like she was going to continue, but her throat tightens, and her lips thin, press together, and she looks towards the window, eyes welling.

An old song kicks onto her Pip-boy, one of the holotapes she'd found in the ruins. He stands, his coat shucking off his shoulders and plopping to the couch. He holds out a hand to her, and she takes it without question. Her trusting manner was one that he'd think about at nights where sleep came hard.

He tugs her out into the open area of the room, away from the couches and the Mentats, and places his hands on her hips. She wipes at her cheeks before draping her arms around his neck on instinct. He was only a few inches taller than her, so their eyes meet immediately, and his heart constricts in his ribs.

"What're you doing?" she asks, a small smile gracing her bleeding lip. He shrugs, searching her ocean eyes for any sign of uncomfortableness, yet finding none.

"This is how they did it, right?" he softly smiles down at her before beginning to move on a slow circle, and she realizes where his thoughts lie. She begins to cry harder, but buries her face into his shoulder. "I can't make the world like it was, but I can try and bring back some of the good parts."

Her tears fall against his skin, warm, soft. He wraps his arms around her, inhaling the scent of her hair, barely remembering to keep the slow spinning going. His feet are heavy with Jet, but he finds her leading him, her sobs growing less and less violent.

Eventually, they stop, as does the holotape, yet they still stand, still sway.

"Thank you," she whispers, stepping back only enough to look at him. If he'd had a nose, it'd be touching hers. Her exhales held the faint, far away scents of rainfall. He can't find the words to express what his brain is trying to tell him, and she mistakes his lack of an answer. She begins to step away, but his arms hold her closer.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks, and she hides the momentary shock with a small nod.

So he does.


	5. Chapter 5 - Everything

Everything was different now.

Every firefight, he fought sober. He couldn't risk a high throwing off his footwork again, not when she was at his side, eyes wild and breath heavy in her chest. Once, he flung himself off a three story building onto the back of a super mutant behemoth, driving a machete into its eye, and when the beast fell, she'd asked what the fuck possessed him. He shrugged, wiped his weapon on his pants, and smirked.

Every night, they found themselves sleeping together beside a fire. Her soft snores would lull him into a peaceful sleep, one that he hadn't found in years. Her ass would be pressed into his hips, her head tucked under his chin, and often, she'd roll over on their sleeping bags, kiss his collar bone, and mutter something about how he smelled like jet and cigarettes. He took is as a compliment every time.

Once in a while, they'd find themselves in a dark ally, sweaty and tired. She'd lean into his shoulder, watching the flickering flames on the brick walls. He'd never pushed her into anything, making sure she knew they would take things at her pace. But once in a while, she'd nuzzle into his neck and snake a line of kisses up to his earlobe, sending tremors through his spine.

Once, she'd initiated, and he oh so happily obliged. He pushed her against the wall, still sitting, dragging his palm over her blue jean thighs. Her gasps urged him, her fingers against his scalp brought his teeth to the edge of her belt. The buckle was almost undone when the snarls of feral ghouls snapped them back to reality.

"Later," he panted when they were all dead and his mood was thoroughly ended.

Everything was different. She was timid where he was rash. He knew the thought of her husband kept her hesitant, and he sure as shit wasn't going to push her to get over him. Hell, the man had his respect; he could never imagine raising a kid, and even though he lo- really gave a shit about her, marriage was not up his alley. He had automatic respect for anyone ballsy enough to pop out a kid, pre-war or no.

One night, when the sky was flecked with freckled stars, she'd awoken him from his bed in Sanctuary, her face hollow and tired. She'd asked for his help with something, and he'd been awake with a shotgun at his hip within seconds. She'd taken his hand, kissed his palm, and thanked him before leading him up the hill to the Vault.

The air was damp inside, and everything smelled like decay and metal. The lights still functioned, but were growing dim the further they went inside. He glanced around, seeing the giant pods she'd told him about. People were still inside, still petrified. He knew what they came here to do.

More than once, she'd slipped out of her home when she thought he was asleep. He'd hear the Vault open up moments later, and she wouldn't return for hours.

When they approached the only other open pod, his suspicions were confirmed.

Flowers adorned his frozen grave, all dead and mutated and pathetic. The frost gripped his black curls, his long nose, his round cheeks. His arms were beefy and well-toned. He was beautiful, he thought as he lowered himself to his knees beside her. She placed a yellow, dead flower at his feet, sighing heavily.

"Hey, Nate," she smiles, more to herself than anything. He remains quiet.

"I know this is pointless, but I just wanted to tell you that things are going really well. I mean, the world is kind of a mess, but there are still some good people left in it. I, uh… well." She clears her throat three times before continuing.

"I told you I'd met someone. I know you always said that… well, if things went south with China and you never came home, that you'd want me to move on; not feel guilty for falling for someone else. Well, I have found someone. His name is John. I think you'd like him."

He sits, motionless, looking up at the man that still wore their wedding band. The florescent light in the pod shone through the hole between his eyes.

"I, uh… I think this is the last time I'll be coming here, Nate. I know you believed in Heaven and souls and all that, but you know I never did. I just… I wanted you to know, if you're listening or watching or whatever, that I'm beginning to find happiness again. I feel like, for the first time, I'm not alone. So I'll find Shaun, and I'll make sure he's safe, and I'll make sure to keep being happy. For the both of us, okay?"

Her heavy exhale brings him back into his mind. He'd become lost in her words, reeling from the ease she confessed her feelings before him. He felt out of place, strange, uncomfortable; like there wasn't any fucking way he'd be able to compete with the love they'd had. He remains on his knees, watching in silence as she slides his ring from his hand before closing the pod door.

She looks down to him, face still emotionless.

"Are you okay? I should've asked before I brought you down here, but I thought I'd lose my nerve, and I didn't-"

He stands and pulls her into his rough chest. She grips at his shirt, releasing a breath that carried a thousand sleepless nights.

"Sunshine, don't you worry," is all he says, stepping back and brushing her hair behind her ear. She smiles up at him, and for the first time, he sees the happiness behind it.

How long had it been there?


	6. Chapter 6 - Jupiter

The stars were dim against the sky when he finally returned to Goodneighbor. Alone.

His boots were heavy, filled with gristle and dirt. His jeans were tattered, his head dull from three days with not a lot of sleep, his mood incredibly fucking pissy and not improved any by the sight of Jupiter in front of him. Christ, he couldn't even get inside before something had to go wrong.

"Hancock!" she sang, cigar clutched in her teeth as she approached him. Her shaggy black hair bounced around her face as she walked, dark skin freckled with scars.

"Hey, Jupiter. Thought the Gunners took you out months ago," he chuckles, clapping his hand into hers. He feels his fingers bend under her grasp, and for a tense heartbeat, they lock eyes. The air stills around them, and he catches drifters scattering like roaches to avoid the miasma of unease that followed Jupiter around. The handshake lasts a second too long. His fingers find the hilt of his machete.

She giggles, and then laughs. She pulls him into her chest, and he inhales the stale skin and smoke of her before pulling back.

"You and I have business to discuss," she mutters in his ear before kissing his cheek, shouldering that fucking Super Sledge and thundering into the Old State House. The guards were on, well, guard. He gives them a stern look and a nod before following his guest inside.

Fahrenheit was propped up in a corner, cold eyes never leaving their visitor. Hancock flops to the battered couch, grabbing a Jet inhaler from the table and kicking his boots off. Jupiter stalks slowly around the room, picking up various things and examining them like she cared.

"So," he sighs, dropping his heels to the table and stretching out, "to what do I owe your wonderful fucking company?"

She snaps to him, a tint to her stare he knew meant she was one slip away from carving a bloody path through Boston. Her smile is too wide, her steps too eager to reach him.

"What? I can't stop by and see an old lover?" she coos, plopping beside him on the couch, running a many-times broken finger over his arm. He chuckles.

"Cut the shit, Ju. Is this about the Salem job?" he asks, planning the necessary muscle memory to reach his knife and drive it into her throat if she came at him.

"It's about Salem, but also about some rather nasty rumors I've heard about you," she grins, taking his hat from his head and tossing it over the back of the couch.

"I paid your people for Salem. How many times do I have to put down one of your boys before you get the fucking message?" he asks in a tone usually reserved for small talk about the weather. He returns her glare.

"See, you only paid us for half of the job, and I thi-"

"I paid you for what was done. You did half job, so you only get half the pay." She doesn't respond, only clenches her fists together in her lap until her knuckles turn white.

"We agreed on five hundred."

"Yeah, but you're only going to get two. End. Of. Story."

"Is it true you've got a fat Vault Dweller as a girlfriend now?" she snaps, pulling a cigarette from the pocket of her army pants. His left eye twitches, and she snickers behind her lighter. She stands, flicking her ashes to his floor.

"Fine," is all Jupiter says around that fucking grin. Two of his men watch her practically skip from the building, hammer in hand, humming a tune from the radio. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He pumps his lungs full of Jet, feeling the smoke snake around his throat.

"Why don't you just kill her? She won't let this go," Fahrenheit snaps, coming up to sit on the opposite couch.

"That ain't the kind of person I wanna be," he mutters, dropping his head over the back of the couch. "You know the Five Stars. I want word the second any of them step into this town. They put a fucking finger out of line, I want you to cut off their hands, ya dig?"

Fahrenheit nods her ginger head, spinning and stalking out of the room.

He wondered where Sunshine was right now.


	7. Chapter 7 - Gone

He'd lost her.

Gone. Gone. Gone. She was gone.

He ran through towering ruins, the windows all full of stretched out faces. All laughing at him.

"You let her go, and now she's gone forever." The chant from the buildings built up and soon, it was all he could hear. He couldn't even hear himself scream her name in the strange, warping darkness.

"Running is all you're good for, Hancock. You finally find a woman that can keep up with you and you run. You're gonna keep pushing and running until no one is left." He halts, recognizing the hunched over frame of Jupiter in the distance. A fractured spotlight shone over her body, her wild hair rustling in a non-existent breeze. He remembered those words; she'd spat them at him after he'd walked from their bed a few years back.

She slowly turned to him, wild dark eyes wide and beast-like. She threw something at him; he watched the mauled form of a child roll to a stop at his feet. Somehow, he knew it was Shaun. He'd never seen him, but he knew the fractured skull and missing arm was his.

Oh, God. He'd failed her. He'd failed her. His sun would never be able to look at him again. Not after he let this happen.

Alone. He was alone and she was gone and he might as well just kill himse-

Something shook him wildly. He came to in a swinging panic, trying to push away whatever was near him.

"John!" Her voice cut through his mind like a comet. He brought himself to a sitting position on the bed, chest heaving and eyes wide, and he looked at her worried face searching his. He began shaking. His stomach turning, he thought he was going to vomit. She began humming soft words to him, pulling his sweaty, crumpled form to her chest, letting himself wrap his arms around her middle like a crying child.

"Shhh. It's okay. I'm here, you're in Goodneighbor. You're okay. Shhh, hun," she kept telling him over and over, stroking small circles into his temple and shoulder when silent tears ran down his face.

"Why're you… here?" he asked around violent gasps, and the more he shook, the more he knew he was going to vomit.

"I missed you," she smiled into his forehead, kissing him gently, not stopping the calming circles, not stopping the hushed words.

She was here. She was real, and she was his. After his breathing calmed, she lifted his chin up to look at her, and with the sleeves of a battered flannel shirt, she wiped away the stains on his cheeks. She was carful around what was remaining of his nose.

"I love you," he whispered. Her eyebrows raised in shock, but the look disappeared as her eyes started to well up. He's about to apologize when she muttered, "I love you, too."

"I'm so sorry," he muttered. He flung himself from the bed, dashing on weak legs to what remained of a toilet. His entire spine arched as he emptied his stomach. His throat was burning, his eyes watering. God, he was a fucking pathetic mess.

It'd been so long since his heart had felt this empty. It was a bad place. It was even worse that he couldn't remember what he'd taken the night before to send him into this state. It was laced, he thought. It wasn't the sinking blackness that always found its way back into his brain. Not now. Please, not now.

He spit into the toilet bowl, his body empty. All he could taste and smell was acid. He leaned on the remains of the sink to bring himself to a standing position. He spit one last time before tuning and heading bac towards his bedroom.

She was waiting for him, a bottle of purified water in one hand and a teddy bear in the other. Her boots were kicked off, her jeans in a pile on the floor. She was stunning.

"So, uh… the 'L' word, huh?" she asked quietly, a half smile waxing on her lips. He flops to the bed, flinging his arm over his eyes.

"Wasn't exactly the romantic reveal I was planning, but…" he peeks at her, and she grins. He grabs the water, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing it. It tasted awful, but he didn't have the energy to stand and spit it out.

"Are you okay?" she asks, taking his charred hand in hers. He smiles weakly, pressing his thin lips to her palm.

"Better," he coos as he tugs her down onto his chest. Her hair smells like the stars and even though he knew he wouldn't fall back asleep, having her here, with him…

"I love you," she kisses each word into his chest.

He'd never be able to tell her how much that meant to him.


	8. Chapter 8 - Yes

_**Author's Note:**_ Just a warning that there be sexy times below. Nothing graphic, but if this isn't your jam, then feel free to skip it. 3

* * *

Something exploded beside him, blasting him off of his feet and into the wall. He heard her cry out, but couldn't see through the smoke.

The howls of the ferals grew quiet as the dust settled and he slowly got to his feet. He saw her in the corner, head cocked at a weird angle. He stumbles over to her, dropping to his knees on the charred floor.

"Hey, c'mon, love," he muttered, shaking her shoulders when she doesn't stir. His heart began to beat faster in his throat until he's digging through her pack, desperate for Stimpaks. Clumsily, he jabs one into her leg. He counts… one minute before he swears, hands shaking as he stabs her with another one.

She comes back in a gasping climax, eyes wide and tearful. She takes huge gulps of air, reaching out for his duster as she begins to ease into reality. He finds himself taking huge breathes, cupping her freckled face with his hands, resting his forehead against hers

"Don't. You ever. Do that again," he snarls, and she nods against him.

"I'll try," she chuckles on an exhale. Her breath carried the faint, far away scent of vanilla, and he pins dark eyes with hers. A shot of lust shoots down his spine, and he almost ignores it, but then she bites ever-so-slightly on her bottom lip. He growls like thunder and presses his lips to hers. Her thighs tighten around his waist, her hand tears into his shoulder, her gasps push her breasts into his chest.

Now. It had to be now.

He began fumbling with the straps holding her armor on, and she undid the buttons on his shirt. They were on the same page. As her shoulder pads thud to the floor, she tugs her shirt over her head.

"No bra?" Hancock grins, sinking his teeth into her neck. She nods into him.

"Who the fuck wears a bra in the apocalypse?" she mutters, shucking his coat from his shoulders to reveal his bare back. As he trails his way down her sternum, she bucks, digging her short nails into his spine.

With no warning, she's flipped him onto his back, pinned his hands to the wall behind him, and shoved her tits in his face. He's momentarily shocked, but then unbelievably aroused. She grinds down on him, working her hourglass hips over his jeans with painful, teasing strokes.

"Fuck," is all he can get out before she's torn his pants off, boots and all, and wrapped a hand around him. His spine arches at her touch, her mouth, the way she flicks her tongue over him in just the right places. She was eager, hungry, just like him. Her name escapes him as his fingers dig into her hair, not interrupting her rhythm but pulling back with enough force to earn him a couple of shaky inhales.

"S-stop, stop, hold on," he grits out after a handful of minutes, and she stops to look up at him. He bites the insides of his cheeks, trying to get his hips to stop moving, stop aching for her touch again.

"You good?" she asks, voice rough. He nods.

"Just didn't wanna finish yet," he hisses. She giggles, undoing the buttons of her jeans and shucking them off of her.

Woooaah. Okay. This was really happening, he thinks numbly as she straddles his hips again. No dinner, flowers, hand holding; none of the shit he'd asked Valentine about. Just straight to the deed.

"Hey, sunshine, you sure?" he asks, brushing the hair from her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips seeming fuller than normal.

"Yeah, I'm sure," she smiles, kissing him feverishly. She raises her hips up just enough, until…

Until his eyes roll back, his throat seizes up. Fucking God, she was perfect. She moans his name into his neck, pacing herself slowly. His voice thunder in his chest, he tells her to go faster, and she does. He asks if she liked it, if she wanted this, if she loved him, if she wanted him.

Yes, yes, yes, yes.


	9. Chapter 9 - Deacon

Bang, bang, beautiful.

It'd been so long since he'd seen fireworks, he'd almost forgotten anything in this wasteland could be so bright. He shielded his eyes from the eruption in the sky, smiling as her shouts of joy rang louder than any others. People were wearing bright clothes, dresses, makeup, sloshing bottles of booze over themselves as they tried to dance.

It was a fucking party, he grinned, joining his lover in her jubilee, raising a vodka bottle over his head, toward the moon. What was left of his ears were ringing, his vision was blurry from the lights, but when she grabbed his jaw and kissed him, everything was clear again.

He could taste the rum – no, brandy – on her tongue as it flickered against his bottom lip. He growled behind a smile and pulled her into his hips, only to have her gently push against his chest.

"We can't. You're drunk," she giggles. His brows raise.

" _I'm_ drunk?" he repeats in disbelief, and she laughs and nods. " _You're_ drunk!" He taps her nose, and she scrunches it up in that way he adores.

Her ethereal blue dress flowed around her as she twirled away from him, her eyes hazy but keeping to his through the crowd. He smiles, feeling the familiar heat creep up his chest at her tell-tale grin. The only thing that keeps him from tearing a holy fucking warpath through that crowd was a strong hand on his shoulder.

Before he can turn around, cheers burst from the swarm of people, and he sees Preston Garvey, clearly tipsy, wave from the walls of the Castle.

"Ladies, gentlemen, thank you all for coming to the Commonwealth's first ever Fourth of July celebration!" he yells, and the people below scream in applause. He waits with a smile for them to calm down.

"I don't need to tell any of you how bleak life can be out here. But with your help – all of your help – the Commonwealth is safer, and thanks to all of you, the Minutemen are out in force, keeping us safe. It's… well, frankly, it's more than I could have hoped for."

His throat seizes up, and he hears a handful of women "aww" as he holds back his emotions. Preston was undoubtedly getting laid tonight, Hancock muses around his drink.

"So much was lost in the war. But, thanks to all of you, we're gaining it back. We're regaining our civility, our humanity, our customs. This is just the beginning," he motions to the firework cannons set up on the walls of the Castle. "But there's something else we can get back tonight."

People whisper, asking what it could be, what could be brought back. But slowly, in the center of the crowd, he saw her polka dot dress, and he was excited for whatever it was.

"You know them, you love them! Ladies and gentlemen, Nick Valentine and…"

Her name was lost to the preemptive cheers as the old, battered synth tipped his hat to the crowd of people, piercing eyes glowing in the dark. Seeing him in a dress shirt and not the trench coat was something of a miracle. She curtsied, waving and running to give Nick a quick embrace.

The music started at an ear-shattering volume, rumbling the speakers set up on the walls. From their hug, Valentine twirled her out with his skeletal hand, and she snapped into what must have been a muscle-memory routine. Her feet and hips moved non-stop, her smile so wide it almost wrinkled her eyeliner. After the initial shock wore off, people were clapping and attempting to copy the pre-war moves. No one had her grace, Valentine's strength.

He counted three times the synth swung her over his shoulder before he had to get another drink. The bar that had been set up was busy, but the bartender recognized him, and had his whiskey poured within seconds.

He props his elbow on the bar, downing the warm booze and watching his girl twist and twirl around Nick. A hand drops to his shoulder, and this time, he catches the culprit as they lean beside him.

"Nice party, huh?" the man asks, blonde hair falling in waves over his tuxedo. His face was peppered with stubble, his eyes outlined with eyeliner. There was no mistaking that voice, though.

"Yeah," Hancock grins. "Real nice of ya to drop by, Deacon."

The man smiles widely, turning his attention back to the dancing.

"Man, what a smooth dude," Deacon sighs, eyes locked on Nick. "Think I could ask him for lessons?"

"You can try," he snickers, taking another gulp of his booze. It didn't burn, not the way it did when the party had just started. He should be careful, before he gets as drunk as his lover was.

"So, this a business chat or are you just here for my delightful company?" the ghoul asks as his eyes pin Deacon down. The man shrugs, but his smile falls a little. Hancock nods as he gets his answer.

"Been a lot of chatter throughout the raider gangs about a crew called the Five Stars. A lot of bad dudes been bringing up Goodneighbor, been bringing up our girl," Deacon's face falls completely as she waves to the two of them from her spot in the crowd before she's spun into Nick's arms once again.

"Jupiter is a mental case. Last I heard, she didn't have enough of a crew to take down a mirelurk den, let alone Goodneighbor," Hancock looks over to Deacon, catching the shaking of his head.

"She's been quiet. Getting people together, pulling off jobs without anyone knowing. She's not the same reckless psychopath you took down a few years ago." Deacon swirls his drink in his hand, and Hancock catches a flash of his painted nails. "She's going to move against you, and soon. But she's going to take down people close to you first."

"What do you know?" Hancock snarls, shifting to stare the smoothskin down. Deacon doesn't back away.

"That's it," he replies.

"Bullshit. She's gotta have a plan, or people inside Goodneighbor. I need more than that."

"That's all I know, and I'd appreciate it if you mind the shoes. You have no idea how hard polish is to find out here." Hancock sees the people around them avert their eyes, and he sighs and relaxes back into his drink.

"Look, that girl up there? She's about the only friend I've got out here. I'm going to do my best without tipping any raiders off, but you've gotta trust me." Hancock snorts in response. Trust and Deacon didn't usually go hand in hand, but for the first time in a long time, he was powerless to fight back against forces moving against him.

"Fine. But I expect to be updated," Hancock jabs a finger into the tuxedo, and Deacon winces dramatically. Hancock downs the rest of his drink as a blue blur barrels into his chest. She smelled like sweat and brandy but she was his.

"Deacon!" she shouts, moving from him to the man beside them. Deacon curses her for recognizing him, but they both new if he really didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be found.

His heart is all he can hear as she pries herself off of Deacon, grabs his charred hands, leads him back into the Castle through one of the side rooms. He doesn't realize he's in the General's quarters until she's pushing him back onto the bed, trying to shuck his jacket from his shoulders. When he finally comes back into reality, he holds her wrists and looks up into her eyes.

"John? What's wrong?" she asks, stopping as soon as she sees he's upset. His lips press together, and he runs his hand over her cheek.

"Not tonight, okay? You're drunk and I just… want to hold you." She looks into his eyes, but before she can ask what's wrong again, she drops to his side, curling up into him.

He needs to tell her, but not tonight. She should enjoy herself as long as possible.

"I love you," he whispers into her hair.

"I love you, too," she kisses his chest.

They fall asleep to the sounds of pre-war music and people shouting, but Hancock finds himself staring at the ceiling more than sleeping, counting the bricks in the walls and the freckles on her nose because he doesn't know how much longer he'll be able to see either.


	10. Chapter 10 - Morning

_**Author's Note:** _ Warning! There be sexy times ahead.

* * *

He awoke the next morning to an empty bed.

Light assaulted his eyes through cracks in the bricks, and he groaned and rolled over, burying his head in the beaten pillow. It smelled like her. He feels himself push into the mattress, and he grumbles, reaching down to bring his dick up into the top of his pants.

He found her absence manifesting itself as an ache in his chest and hips. Slowly, he rolled over, glaring up at the ceiling, hearing the sound of footsteps in the courtyard of the Castle. He didn't know how late it was, but the doors were locked and he was alone and needing some kind of release.

He didn't tell her, but he'd been cutting back on the Jet. For no other reason than to make her happy, he'd knocked his intake down to three a day because she once said she hated the smell of the smoke. Now, however, he was jittery, anxious, knowing he'd brought none with him to this party and something had to be done to take his mind off of the throbbing ache in his pants.

He grumbled as he stood on tired legs to go over and jiggle the doors, checking to make sure they were actually locked. He flopped to the bed again, knees hooked over the side, hands sliding his jeans from his hips.

He chuckled, thinking about what his lover was missing out on as he wrapped his fingers around himself. He let his head tip back against the mattress, trying to imagine her smooth skin against his, her giggles deep in her throat escaping in smug satisfaction at the ways he writhed under her.

He remembered the way her breasts felt in his hands, his teeth, how she propped herself up on his chest and cursed with the same exhales she used for his name.

His thighs tensed, his back bent upwards.

"Fu…uhh, fucking God," he grit out through his teeth, eyes shutting tightly.

He finished in a flash of her, and when his lungs settled and his body felt drained, he came back to the reality where she was gone from their bed. He lay motionless, eyes closed.

When did he become so obsessed with her? Just a few months ago, he'd been footloose and free, smoking and drinking and running a town. He'd been drowning in sex, suffocating under the amount of one-night stands and now, he couldn't even jerk off without his mind drifting to her.

He reminded himself that, not so long ago, he'd promised himself that love was a waste of time, and now look at him.

He chuckled to himself, sitting and standing and pulling his pants back up.

Love was pretty alright.


	11. Chapter 11 - Branded

September second was the day he died again.

He awoke to screams outside his window. Triggermen were racing to get outside, and someone was shouting out his name. He pulled his jeans and left his shirt, taking the spiral stairs down two at a time to kick open the door.

In front of the Hotel Rexford, a crowd of people were gathered, but the air was unbelievably uneasy. The guards were shooing people away, some shouting about getting Dr. Amari out here and some shouting for people to get back.

Hancock shoved his way through the crowd, and the first thing he saw was a young boy, about eighteen, with a bullet hole through his leg. The next was his lover, covered in blood.

He froze. People reacted to his presence, locking their eyes to him to see what he would do. He drops beside his sunshine, pushing the triggerman that was examining her face aside.

He almost vomits. He hisses, scrunching his eyes shut, hoping, praying, this was another bad chem dream. A nightmare. But the smell of burning flesh assaults his senses, and he knows it's real.

"Where's the fucking doctor?" he snaps, and people scatter to the sides, away from him. He places a hand gently on her chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her lungs. She was shivering, whiteknuckled on the ground.

Her face was a burning mess. From her hairline to her neck, the right side was still smoking. Someone had held her face over the fire, maybe heated up something large and branded her. Her face, her wonderful cheekbones, everything was white and weeping and dripping to the cement and the smell stuck to his throat as he hissed out orders to the people around him.

He felt dead.

When Amari showed up, eyes tired and her labcoat hanging off of one shoulder, she covered her face from the smell. She said she wasn't that kind of doctor, but when Hancock turned crying eyes to her, she ordered the triggermen to pick her up and take her to her Memory Den.

In an hour, Nick Valentine and Dr. Sun had made their way to Goodneighbor.

Hancock sat outside the Memory Den, cigarette firmly held between his lips when the old synth took a seat beside him. Hancock didn't think the robot could look any more tired.

"She'll be okay."

Hancock exhales, his entire body shaking, his head sinking into his hands. Nick begins to rub his shoulders, and he wonders how many grieving widows he's comforted before. The two sit in silence for so long that his cigarette burns away into nothing.

"I need your help," is the first thing the ghoul manages to get out. Nick, now propping his elbows up on his knees, looks to him. "I know who did this. I need to find them and kill them."

The synth sighs heavily, looking out into the streets of Goodneighbor where people were trying to clean the sidewalk of melted pieces of skin.

"We'll kill them all like dogs."


	12. Chapter 12 - Interrogation

_**Author's Note:**_ There's some heavy shit in this chapter. So, a warning; if torture is not your thing, I don't blame you, but go ahead and skip this one. I won't take offence, I promise. The song from this chapter is:

"Be-Bop-A-Lula" - Gene Vincent

* * *

The music was the first thing that seeped into his brain.

Feeling was a slow warmth throughout his body. He tested his fingers, his toes, making sure they were all there before he tried to open his eyes. It took him a few moments of muffled grunting to pry them open, and the light was so bright that he recoiled, slamming his skull into the back of the chair. Pain flashed through his head, kicking a primal fear into his veins. His entire body tightened as he tried to move, but couldn't.

The second thing that blazed was his thigh. The hole was as he remembered before he'd been knocked out, and the sight made him heave and shut his eyes. Oh, God, he was going to die here. This was it. This was it this was it this was…

No, be calm. Mercury said to be calm and say nothing. Shh, just open your eyes.

As the throbbing in his head subsided, he carefully opened his eyes. They burned, but he forced them, seeing through the haze that his wrists were tied to the arms of a chair. He began to panic, twisting and digging the rope further into his skin in a desperate attempt to get free. His legs were similarly tied, rendering him completely useless. His eyes focused, pulling his attention to the room around him.

This was it this was it this was this was it this was it this was-

He had no idea where he was or how he got here. He thought he was in a basement from the musty smell and the crude stone walls, but he wasn't sure. There was nothing but one light above him and the door; no windows, no vents, nothing. Fear raced through him; he could feel it on the back of his neck.

The door burst open as though it were kicked in, and he shrinks in on himself as best he can. He catches only boots before someone was on him, driving their fist into his face. Someone – a man – yells at his attacker and pulls them off of him. He whimpers as his nose bleeds into his throat. A rough male voice curses, shaking his now bleeding fist.

"You got some nerve, kid," the man growls, wiping his blood on his pants. He looks up, seeing a yellow-eyed robot staring at him from the edge of the light. He's afraid to look his capturer in the eyes.

"Please," he begins, but it silenced by a combat knife to his throat. He's forced to meet black eyes set in a charred skull, thin lips pulled back into a sinister sneer. God, no…

"Hancock, I-" he squeaks, but is immediately silenced when the mayor plunges his knife into the hole in his leg. He screams, white agony threatening to knock him out again. He thinks about his family before he prepares to die.

"John!" the synth snaps again, and Hancock reluctantly slides the blade from his flesh.

"I'm gonna ask you a question, and you're gonna tell me the truth. I don't like it, I take a fingernail. Are we clear?" the ghoul growls, hovering that knife just under his eye. He begins to cry, his trembling shaking lose the tears he'd been trying to hold back. He nods.

"You're Lei Fian?" is the first question, and he nods. Before he can look back up, Hancock had slid his blade under his thumb nail and pried. Blackness snaked into his vision again. Something is stuck into his arm; he's forced awake. When he opens his eyes, a syringe dangles from his skin, and he recognizes the PsychoJet. They'd never let him die.

"You're gonna answer 'yes, sir' or 'no, sir' and nothing else. I wanna hear your fucking voice," he snaps, flicking the blood off the knife and onto the floor. He whimpers out a "yes, sir" before another nail is lost. The robot in the hat leans again the wall, eyes glowing like embers that never left his face.

"You were in Goodneighbor last night with your raider band. Made a real fucking mess for the boys in the bar before getting kicked to the streets," Hancock leans his weight on the chair, and if he'd had a nose, it'd been touching his. The chair trembles.

"Yes, sir," Lei stutters, tears and snot and blood running from his face.

"Your leader has a problem with me. Didn't have the fucking stones to solve shit like adults, so she went after someone I cared about." Another meek "yes, sir" from the captive.

"You were the one who held her face to the firepit. Tried to burn the skin from her skull as the rest of your fucking gang hauled ass and left you to take the bullet," his eyes were burning with so much rage, it was like he was back there, in Goodneighbor, putting all his weight on the woman to keep her down, close to the fire.

"I was j-just following orders! They were going to kill my sist-" he's cut off as the blade digs under his index finger's nail, flicking it off with a solid, fluid motion. Another flash of white agony, another syringe in his arm.

"I don't fucking care about your sob story!" the ghoul thunders, gripping the weapon so tightly that his hand shakes. "My friend is in Diamond City, getting her face sewn back on because you and your little fucknut gang wanted to get back at me, is that right?"

A skeletal hand tugs the ghoul back a step, and he thanks whatever god was out there for this robot. Hancock's his knuckles were turning white around the blade.

"Please…" he sputters, watching numbly as blood pours onto the concrete floor. He was covered in sweat and tears and urine, his head hanging limply to his chest.

Hancock snarls, running his fingers over his head in an anxious mantra. He begins to pace around the chair, eyes tightly shut and palms digging into his forehead. The silence broken only by Lei's pathetic whimpers and that fucking music.

After an eternity, the mayor stops his pacing and looks down at him.

"You're going to give me that shirt, your gun, your boots. Then, you're getting out of here, and if I ever hear even the smallest rumor that you're back, I'm going to skin you alive and send you home in a shoebox. Are we clear?"

He nods, but the tip of the blade finds his chin. Through his tears, he locks eyes with the ghoul again.

"My friend and I are coming for the rest of you. We will rain a holy fucking atom bomb down on you until Jupiter's head is on my desk. You wanna live? Get out of the Commonwealth and don't you ever think of coming back."

He watches in shocked pain as the ropes are sawed through, his arms bleeding from the tightness of the bonds. The ghoul was facing a wall, the door was open, he only had one chance to warn his boss of Hancock's bloodlust, maybe get himself another month to pack and leave. His legs are too weak to stand, but he limps towards the door all the same.

"You got ten seconds to get the fuck out of my sight," Hancock bellows when he enters the hallway.

He's just reached the exit when he hears "ten" echo around the walls.

He's closed the door before a bullet bounces on the other side, denting the metal where his heart would have been.


	13. Chapter 13 - Dogs

_Sunlight punctured his eyelids, and he groaned in a half-awake growl and buried his face in her neck. She smelled like hope, and it was enough to bring him further into the world of the waking._

 _She was sprawled over her sleeping bag, wearing nothing but an old t-shirt and a ratty pair of underwear, the long hair atop her head fanned about her face. She was snoring softly against him, legs twisted with his, arm thrown over his chest._

 _Damn, he was in love, he smirked as he shifted away from her._

 _The old elevator had served its purpose: being out of the way, and providing a small hiding place to sleep for the night. Sure, there was a hole blasted into the side, and you could see the Wasteland through the floating dust and rubble, but there weren't a lot of cozy spots left in the world. And as he looked down onto her sleeping form, he realized how cozy a rotted elevator could be._

" _Hey, it's morning," he kissed the words into her shoulder. She moaned in her sleep, moving her head further into the folded jacket she'd used as a pillow. He rolls his eyes, allowing his hands to drift farther down her body, swaying over the curves of her hips._

 _She laughs as he graces the ticklish spot over his her, turning tired eyes to peer at him._

" _Morning," she sighs, a smile on her lips as she kisses him. When she shuffles to face him better, her wrist brushes against his hips, and she recoils, glancing down with a sadistic grin._

" _Good morning to you, too," she chuckles, pushing on his chest so she could plant a kiss to the bulge of his jeans. He bucks, and in an instant, she's undone his zipper and his hands are wound in her hair and he's wondering what kind of fucked up gods are out there to let him find someone like her._

" _I want to go all the way."_

 _He snaps back into his reality, locking wide, black eyes with her endless, starry ones._

" _What?" he chokes out._

" _I. Want to go. All the way." She punctuated each phrase with a nip of his skin, resting her chin on his chest._

" _Yeah, just… are you sure? I don't know what you're expecting, and I know you've never… with a ghoul. I just wanna make sure you're sure," he sighs, rough hands cupping her cheeks. She relaxes into them before pulling herself into a sitting position on his hips._

" _Yeah. I mean, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous as hell, but that's more of a 'hoo, boy, it's been a long time since I've had sex' kind of a thing," she explains, nails tracing an absent minded pattern into his chest. "But I wanna go all the way. With you."_

 _He doesn't speak as she slowly shucks off her underwear, only nods when she asks if he was okay with it._

" _I don't want to make you uncomfortable," she pauses, looking down at him with concern._

 _He laughs. It starts as a chuckle, then develops in a bellowing sound that rattled the walls of the elevator. She smiles, looking mildly confused._

" _ **You**_ _make_ _ **me**_ _uncomfortable? Darling, how the fuck would you make me uncomfortable? I'm the walking freak show, not you. Hell, I'm just amazed the novelty hasn't worn off yet, is all." He looks up at her, finding her smile gone._

" _Novelty? Woah, okay, novelty has nothing to do with it."_

" _Oh, c'mon, doll. I've seen how you look at Deacon, at Danse. You don't gotta lie to me, babe, I know what I am." He was chuckling, but his eyes were sliding to the holes in the wall, the ceiling, anywhere but her._

 _He jerks when she grabs his jaw and captures his lips. She sinks herself down onto him, all the way, and he is lost in a tidal wave of her motions._

" _Let me fucking ask you something," she snaps around the shaking inhales. "Does this feel like I don't love you? Like I don't want you? Does it?"_

" _No," he snarls as his head snaps back, fingers digging into her hips, her ribs, anything he could to steady himself as she rode him._

" _No! You're fucking right, it doesn't!" She was panting now. In a twist of limbs, he's flipped her over and was giving her back what she'd done to him, with the same fast, angry momentum. He sunk his teeth into the sweet spot on her neck, and she wrapped her legs around his middle to provide him a far better vantage point._

 _They went all the way, alright. They went past the way, rode the way until there was nothing left but sweat and her name in his throat, his veins, the taste of her on his tongue as they went all the way until there was nothing but a flash of blackness and release._

 _He sunk to his elbows above her, breathing in huge gulps of air and trying to get his heartbeat steady again. He looks down to her closed eyes and begins to laugh._

" _Man, you are flawless," he mutters in disbelief, kissing her jawline. She nods under him._

" _I know, but the skin will never be the same."_

 _He pauses before meeting her eyes again. Before he can ask what she meant, he's flung off of her in a panic, watching in horror as her skin combusts and begins to melt from her face._

"There's nothing we can do about the scaring, not with Crocker dead. I don't have the ability to completely graft the area, especially with her system still trying to combat the infection. She'll have sight in her eye, but the scars will likely be permanent."

He woke up. He was alone.

The inside of the clinic was crowded and Piper had refused to leave, so he'd taken to flopping to the ground outside. The stolen gas mask hid his face, his winter jacket and jeans hid everything else. People walking by assumed he was just another beggar.

It'd been like this for hours. Sun didn't want to fix her face, insisting on letting it heal over trying to get rid of the scarring. Piper had been fighting him, saying that he could do it but just refused.

Fuck, he missed her.

"Miss her, huh?" the old synth sighs, dropping to the ground beside him, cigarette on his lips. He snorts, looking to him through the mask.

"Not much of a disguise, eh?" he asks, his voice even more hoarse than usual. He sounded like death. Nick looks out into the city, past the walls and the lights, eventually glancing upwards, cigarette burning like a star in his hand.

"I followed that kid's trail back to their hideout. They're on an island off the coast, not too far from the Castle. Couldn't get close enough to see much else, with all the water. They've got vertibirds, which is likely how they move from place to place. Before the Minutemen, there wasn't much reason to go out that far, so who knows what kind of firepower they've gathered up over the months. We won't get far without a boat or 'bird."

Hancock tosses all of this information in his head, trying to remember all the names of people that owe him at once. He's jerked back into reality when Piper slams through the clinic door, knuckles white and hair a mess. She'd been there for hours.

"Fucking Sun!" is all she says, looking down at Nick and Hancock on the ground. "We're killing the assholes that did this, right?"

"Like dogs," is all Hancock growls.

"Good. I know some people that owe me favors, and I can get guns. We're doing this," Piper snarls, stalking off towards her office/home.

"We need the Brotherhood," Hancock sighs. "Need their 'birds."

"Danse owes her for getting his squad out of Cambridge. We'll get birds, maybe even some Brotherhood soldiers." Nick tosses his smoke to the ground, away from the clinic doors. He offers his intact hand to the ghoul, who takes it.

"Like dogs," is all they say as they part.


	14. Chapter 14 - Visit

Kait had left her an engraved baseball bat, covered in curses and encouraging words that urged her to use the gift on the raiders that did this to her. Preston left her a bouquet of wilted flowers. Nick had been bringing her noodles every night. MacCready started a sizable collection of battered teddy bears at the base of her cot. Piper was hastily scribbling down everything that was happening in the Commonwealth without her and leaving stacks of them on her bedside table.

He'd showed up a week after she'd first came here, nothing but his hat in his hand.

He was scared. He really was. Scared of what she'd say to him, of the blame she'd pin on him. He'd spent the entire week trying to think of how best to end things with her, because he sure as fucking hell wasn't letting this happen to her again. Next time, they might…

"Shit," he snaps to himself, looking through the gas mask to the sky. The stars were glimmering through the light pollution, and he remembers laying with her on the roofs of blown apart buildings and asking about constellations. She'd pointed out the ones she remembered, telling their stories with such vigor that, when the chems kicked in, he'd feel himself drift up with her into the moon and lounge in their bounty.

Now, he was painfully aware of her absence in his life as he slowly opened the clinic door, descending the stairs at an even more painful pace. The lights were low, the smell of antibiotics and Stimpaks hung in the air. And there, in a halo of gifts and blood bags, she lay.

She was asleep, he noted as he unstrapped the mask from his head. Part of him was relieved, but most of him was busy packing up the guilt if he awoke her for the purpose of never seeing her again.

He sat down in a chair that had been brought in for guests, and unsurprisingly, there had been a lot: when you devote most of your time to helping people, what do ya expect?

Her face was unbandage, exposing all of her skin, her scarred, shriveled skin, to his view. His legs gave out as he reached the chair.

What had he done to her?

He rolls closer to the bed, reaching out for her hand but hesitating. He didn't really deserve to be here, but he was greedy. His fingers slipped into hers. He placed the back of her hand to his lips.

She stirred, her good eye opening before the other, latching onto him through a tired stretch. Her face lights up, her nose crinkling despite the burn marks, and his heart shatters.

"I'm so sorry." He begins to cry, his shoulders shaking under his shirt. She pulls on his arm, and he stands and crawls into the bed beside her, burying his face in her neck. She smelled like sweat, but there was that same, far away dusting of vanilla and he broke.

He'd missed her so much. Had been able to think of little else besides: How many guns do we need? Is she okay? How many people are we going to need? Will she forgive me? Deacon better come through with the brotherhood, and I hope I can make this up to her somehow.

"You don't have to be sorry," she whispers into in head, but he shakes against her.

"This w-wouldn't have happened i-if-"

"No, maybe not. But it would have happened eventually." He looks up as she says this, charred cheeks wet with his tears. She wipes them away with her thumb and a patient smile. "You don't make a living fucking up raiders and expect this to never happen."

"But… your face is…"

"All fucked up? I know, right?" she laughs, looking… excited? "I saw the marks. They're pretty sweet, aren't they? I look like a badass."

He's entirely unsure how to react. He catches himself staring at her, mouth slightly open, unable to form words. He searches her face for something, anything, that would suggest she was putting up a wall to keep him out, but he finds none.

"I spent all week trying to find the right words to apologize, to try and get you to realize that you're only gonna get hurt if you stick with me," his voice shakes as he sits upright, looking down at her.

"John, list-"

"No, I need to… Look at your fucking face!" he exclaims, motioning to the aforementioned area. She recoils slightly at his tone, but doesn't back down in her stance. "Look at what they did to you, because of me. I can't… I won't let this happen again. Not to someone like you."

"So let's go kill them and it won't happen again," she offers, reaching for his hand but he avoids the contact, instead taking to pacing around the room.

"That won't stop more from trying. I've made a lot of enemies in my day, a lot of people want me dead, a lot of people will use you to get to me. I couldn't live with myself if they…" His fingers dig into his scalp as he paces.

"John, that's not a reason to… to stop seeing each other. We've been shot at, kicked off of cliffs. One time, we walked into a deathclaw nest. Just because this one time actually hurt a little, doesn't mean we should-"

"I don't understand what you aren't getting!" he snaps, and she closes her mouth, looking up at him with hurt and a slight hint of fear. "I can't have you getting hurt like this again. I don't want you to be with me if this is the consequence."

"With all due respect, Hancock," he winces at how formal his last name sounded from her, "you can fuck off. If that's the best reason you have, I simply won't accept it. So, it's a scar. I can still see; I can still fight. And it had nothing to do with you."

He growls, kicking over the pile of stuffed bears on her floor. "I can't let someone else down like this again. I won't be powerless to defend someone I love again. I can't… let that happen to you."

"I can take care of mys-"

"No, you clearly cannot!" He regrets his words as soon as they leave his lips. Her wince will follow him for the rest of his life. But she finally stopped arguing, and in his pained and panicked state, the words won't stop. "You clearly cannot take care of yourself. Your face is ruined and you're only going to slow me down. I can't keep carrying your ass across the Commonwealth."

"Like you ever carried me!" she snaps, flinging the blanket from her bed with force. She slams to her feet and crosses the room to stand directly in front of him. He can see the tears in her eyes. He knows he's close, too. "What's the real reason? Don't you stand here and lie to me. What, is there someone else? Someone who dopes up on chems every night and lets you hate yourself? Is that it?"

She shoves him. Hard enough to send him stumbling back into the clinic wall where he pins her with hurt and angry eyes.

"You're accusing me of cheating on you? Man, and I thought you knew me," he snarls.

"Oh, don't you even start with that!" she laughs, but her voice was shaking, "I know you. I know all too well. Do you know how hard it was for me to love someone after my husband? But I did, because I love you, so don't you throw that shit in my face."

"Oh, boo, hoo," he mocks, raising his voice to crudely imitate hers. "We've all got dead people, sister! You think your husband would have waited to shag a waister if he'd walked and you hadn't?"

He'd crossed the line. He saw it in her face, saw the tears break through her eyes, saw the sloppy windup to the fist that connected to his jaw. He didn't defend against it, took it as it slammed his skull into the wall. He was woozy, staggered into the stairs. She'd hit him with full force.

"Don't you ever talk about my husband," her voice was stone. Just as he was about to push her away further, the door opened, and light poured through.

"What the hell are you doing?" Nick asks, two noodle cups in his hands, peering with golden eyes down to the two. Hancock stands, forgetting his hat and mask on the floor.

"I was leaving," he growls, pushing past the synth.

"And he wasn't coming back," is hurled after him, and Nick gives him a snapping glare before closing the door.

He's alone.

He slumps against the door of the clinic, everything inside of him clinging to her memory. He can hear her crying through the walls, hear Valentine trying to comfort her as best as he could.

Why was he like this, he asks himself as he finally lets the tears fall. His face was still numb, still stinging from her hit. Good, he thought, he deserved much more than that. What had he ever been thinking, falling for someone like that? Someone so good-hearted, so funny and intelligent, and beautiful. How fucking stupid was he to think he deserved her. He was just a-

"Hey, no ghouls in the city," a passing guard grunts down at him, kicking him in the shin. Hancock looks up at him through soaking eyes, not possessing enough energy to retaliate.

He pulls himself off of the ground and leaves.


	15. Chapter 15 - Dead

What was real and what wasn't, he couldn't guess.

Everything had been black for so long, he was sure he was dead. He felt nothing but rare bursts of agony, white and burning, only to have it disappear.

Days passed. Maybe years. Maybe only a few hours. He was suspended in inky nothingness, floating in a void. He couldn't form thought.

Another flash of pain, this time with sound, filled his being.

"...onto the island, but she had known. When… he jumped onto the vertibird and brought... They fell into the water and Danse…"

Then silence. He struggled to keep the words floating in his mind, but he couldn't. He drifted back into emptiness.

Time slipped by.

Reality came back to him in waves, tossing his mind over and over with little sensations that he couldn't pin down. He felt someone hold his hand, someone stick a needle into his arm. Heard conversations, words that would disappear as soon as he tried to remember.

Eventually, his eyes opened.

He could smell the concrete, the water. Felt cold air on his chest, his face, could taste blood in his mouth.

"He's coming around," echoes in his ears. He tries to turn his head, but finds that movement aches to his bones. Someone approaches his right side. His eyes close, squinting shut then opening again. He curses.

"You're in the Castle. You're safe. And alive, but that's a miracle, really." He can see her. He can hear her. She's with him.

"I'm not staying. It's not a matter of pettiness, or anything. Frankly, if you don't respect me enough to treat me like an adult capable of making their own choices, then you can go fuck yourself." She'd been rehearsing. He could hear the methodical and somewhat theatrical tone to her voice, through the fog.

"I heard what you did. How you lead the assault on the island. How when she tried to take off in a vertibird, you literally jumped in and stopped her; smashed her head into the console. Nick said he saw you guys fight, and she pushed you out. You fell at least three stories and hit the beach. Everyone thought you were dead." He could hear the hitch in her voice. It was heartbreaking.

"But you weren't. Jupiter tried to keep the vertibird in the air, but it was shot down. Danse went in and fished her out. She was dead. That entire camp was slaughtered… but you won." Her thumb began to trace circles on the back of his hand, and he wanted to cry. But more than that, he ached to talk to her, to apologize. But his throat was tight and dry, and every sound he made sounded like a pained growl, more so than usual.

"The Castle is kind of a hospital now," she chuckled. "Preston went to all the settlements and got everyone with medical knowledge to come. People are actually improving. I think you'd be proud."

He was. God, he was. His lungs rattled as he tried to sit, but his back muscles stretched and pulled at the effort. She pushed him back down.

"John, listen. I know you only said that shit to keep me away. I know you. But I need time. Time to think and time to keep living. You're going to be fine, but you were still an asshole. So when you're better, and you still think love is worth fighting for, I'll be around." He felt her shift, closed his eyes as she pressed her lips to his - she tasted like Cherry Cola - and felt his stomach turn as she left.


End file.
